


Out Reach

by stereonightss



Category: Hikaru no Go
Genre: 5 plus 1, Coming Out, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, family ties, fugue fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-27 08:27:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18192176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereonightss/pseuds/stereonightss
Summary: Five perspectives on the day they reached the hand of god, plus one perspective on the way it all went down.





	Out Reach

***

I. Waya

 

Waya and Shindou’s flight out of Tokyo was delayed and they missed their transfer because of it. The rickety little puddle hopper they finally got on gave them a sense of urgency, a kind of impending doom, and maybe thats why they got drunk on the second leg of their journey.

Or maybe it’s because it’s golden week and Waya knows that Shindou’s rat’s nest of a brain gets all its multicolored wires crossed around this time each year.

This tournament is for charity and he doesn’t want Shindou to mess it up, because Morishita’s daughter is watching from back home in Japan, after all. She’d said ‘good luck, Taka,’ calling him by his nickname, the only girl besides his mother and his cousin to ever do so. It’s getting pretty serious and he means to keep it that way. So he makes sure Shindou’s loose and happy and not freaking out on the way out to Taiwan, and maybe goes just a little too far.

Shindou has to turn Waya around twice on the way from the gate to the baggage claim and Waya has to turn Shindou around a third time before they find the right set of escalators. He knows it’s for sure the right set of escalators half way down because he spies Touya waiting calmly, kappa cut smug little bastard clearly visible in the crowd of regular faces with regular haircuts.

Next to him Shindou lights up he’s made of halogen and somebody just shocked him full of current. Waya can practically feel Shindou vibrating, and he’s so, so relieved that Shindou is Touya’s problem now and not his.

“Touyaaaaa,” Shindou croons as he practically hangs himself off Touya’s shoulders. Touya gives Waya a look, but rather than deal with it Waya goes and gets their bags, because how hard can it possibly be to find Shindou’s neon yellow rucksack in the sea of black luggage, even if he is still kind of drunk.

When he returns he considers what a weird little picture they make, Shindou in his black tracksuit with red and yellow stripes and that crazy hair as yellow as his limited edition Nikes, pawing at Touya’s pale purple t-shirt. Touya’s just calmly letting him, Touya who by all accounts hates to be touched. He sees Waya with the bags and grabs Shindou by the elbow and guides them off toward the waiting car.

Shindou gets quiet on the long ride out to the hotel and he’s staring out the window with this look on his face like somebody died. Waya thinks maybe he should say something, but when he turns around in the front passenger seat Touya’s eyes are waiting. He just about gets half a word out before the wall of Touya’s intensity smacks him quiet. Shindou doesn’t even turn from the window, he doesn’t even notice, so Waya sighs and tries to nap for the rest of the ride.

The hotel is huge and very nice but it’s hot as hell and even though its only 3pm in Taiwan they go back to their rooms to sleep off the rest of their buzz. When Waya leaves Shindou blank faced and empty looking in the elevator with Touya he says a silent prayer that they don’t fight, or maybe that they do fight, whichever outcome would make him feel better and not worse.

He settles into his room with Isumi and they shoot the shit and play some games until Waya feels all the way straight again. Before long, it’s time to get ready for the opening reception.

They take turns in the shower and suit up and Waya gives up pretty quickly on trying to tame his hair. Isumi straightens their ties and Waya thinks about the tournament bracket. He hopes the food is good here because day drinking makes him hungry, and he's over his nausea and his worry and ready to meet the competition.

The opening speeches are bland but the food is fantastic and Waya feels his full strength returning. He’s brimming with pre-fight energy and he’s either got to tamp it down or release it somehow.

The ballroom is huge and there are some very hot Taiwanese pros in slinky floor-length gowns and Waya jabs Isumi in the ribs and nods in the direction of two of them. Isumi sighs and shakes his head, but follows anyway.

The girls are sweet and have clever eyes and their nails are unpainted and ridged in just the right places, maybe even deeper than his own, so instead of focusing on the challenging task of flirting through a language barrier, Waya finds himself thinking about go. He keeps on though because Isumi, sweet and tall and kind and intelligent and wholly underrated by the women in Japan, isn’t nearly as shy as he used to be. His Mandarin isn’t half bad and he’s got both girls wrapped around his finger.

Waya isn’t faring so well, and its just fine because he’s got Shigeko back home. Probably. Despite his better judgement he grabs some champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and sips until he feels the shadow of a buzz.

He sees Shindou on the other side of the room making one point in a keima with Touya to the left and down, and he wonders idly why those two are always at right angles to each other when they’re not face-to-face across a board.

He can remember more than a few subway rides where one holds the rail and the other braces shoulder against shoulder, a perpendicular press that’s almost intimate, whispering what Waya always hopes is something juicy but is inevitably always go moves.

This time Touya is fielding some women in white, looking like he’a got the initiative and Shindou is half-facing them, staring out past Touya’s shoulder. Waya would say Shindou’s looking at the chocolate fountain except his eyes are far far away again and he has this look on his face he gets mid match when the last thing on his mind is food.

Waya wants to cry for how much they look like they’re living a game on the square tiled floor in their matching gray suits—a real modest choice for Touya. The girls in white chiffon with their elegant updos almost have him caught, but then Waya sees Shindou’s lips move and suddenly Touya’s out, he’s connected and they’re live again.

Shindou probably said something weird because the girls are laughing and walking off and Touya’s just looking at Shindou in this way that Waya can’t read.

“Let’s go say hi,” Isumi says, tugging on Waya’s sleeve, but he leads them to the other side of the room instead, where Touya Meijin is standing with an old Korean pro.The event host swoops in before they do there and suddenly the conversation looks dense so they back away.

Waya leads them back over to Shindou, who’s standing at Touya’s shoulder again, but in parallel this time. And Touya is talking to another girl with short hair and a tight emerald green cheongsam with gold embroidered dragons on it.

Waya takes a thirsty look at her figure (of which he has a great view from behind) and curses Touya’s wasted ability with women—as far as anyone can tell, he doesn’t date, he’s too busy coming way too close to winning major titles. Waya and Isumi don’t really date either, but for them at least it’s not for lack of trying.

Then the girl is grabbing Touya’s hand and clasping Shindou’s shoulder in a real familiar way and Shindou is blushing and, god, Ways’s mind can not handle the image of Touya and Shindou sharing more than just bubble tea.

Then Touya catches his eye and the image dissipates in the heat of that stare and Shindou is saying ‘Hey, Waya!’

The girl turns and she and Touya give him identical soft-polite smiles, and they have the same bowed lips. It’s with some horror that Waya realizes what he thought was a hot girl has turned out to be a pretty hot middle aged woman, and also Touya’s mom.

Waya wishes he wasn’t so put out by the fact that Touya’s mom is pretty and elegant and even charming, nothing like his own. He fumbles a hello and Isumi saves them with a surprisingly smooth greeting of his own.

“It looks like it’s time to rescue your father from the bureaucrats,” Touya’s pretty mom titters. “If you’ll excuse me, boys.”

Waya excuses her, then he excuses himself, up to his room, leaving Isumi down with the others.

 

***

II. Akira

 

Akira wakes up even earlier than usual this morning. It’s warm and bright and today’s the day the other competitors arrive. He decides go down to the match rooms and review games, everything's already set up for the evening’s opening.

He thinks about the bracket in the shower, tracing the line from his name to the top to see where it will intersect with Shindou. He considers their last game, a casual game, and wonders at the strength there. The gap between them has all but closed, and he knows he’s going to have to seek a deeper power in himself to keep them moving.

He starts a game between them in his head and it helps funnel off some of his restlessness. They’ve cleared the opening just as he finishes rinsing the shampoo from his hair. This is the point at which Shindou would do something special, something different, and he hits a wall trying to imagine it. The shower stall feels suddenly tight, his brain goes foggy and all he can see through the mist is Shindou’s hands.

Suddenly the hand dipping into the cup of black stones is a hand in his long black hair, fingers pulling up and out and down his neck. Shindou’s knuckles clenched around that damn fan are Akira’s knuckles curled around himself and his breath hitches and he hisses through his teeth. It makes him thinks of the way Shindou grits his teeth when he’s in a pinch. He traces that ferocious little mid-game snarl with his mind’s eye, and the slide of Shindou’s damp palm against his thigh is Akira’s palm, and Akira is a cup tipped over spilling panting down across the wet marble basin.

He lets the shower water run over his open hands a long time.

He doesn’t fully collect himself again until he steps into the elevator. He goes to the second floor where they’re serving breakfast and hopes to find a quiet table to himself, but when he steps inside the cafe he sees his father sitting alone, staring intently at the empty seat in front of him.

He hears himself say ‘Father, may I join you?’ and there’s a strange spike of anger when his father hesitates before saying ‘Of course.’

They’re poured coffee and Akira orders something small and Koyo is quiet and still as a statue. Akira can’t tell if it’s enlightenment or madness that’s caused the strange change in his father’s eyes since his early retirement.

He seems to be growing more senile, more eccentric every year. He talks to himself, he stares into space. But his go is stronger than ever. No one’s beaten him in over two years.

“Where is mother?”

Koyo gives a misty smile and Akira imagines—hallucinates?—that he can hear a distant but resonant peal of laughter. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“You know her,” Koyo says. “She’s already made about ten friends.”

They eat in a bland quiet, and Akira thinks about the ways in which his father’s hands have aged. They’re steady and strong as they’ve always been, but the skin is becoming thin and crinkled and spotted here and there. He considers his father’s thick but increasingly white hair. Maybe this is him in thirty-five years, maybe he’s looking directly into the future.

It chills him a little to think of it, the decorated former Meijin who talks to himself and sits up at all hours of night playing games with no one, staring at an empty chair. If anything robbed him of Shindou, if Shindou never appeared in his life, Akira would surely grow into that same kind of lonely genius.

“That boy arrives today,” Koyo says, voice like a gong or a splash of cold water to the face, and Akira is once again startled by his father’s ability to read deep into the minds of his opponents.

“Yes. I’m going to go to the airport this afternoon to get him.”

Koyo hums and sips his coffee.

“He’s gotten stronger.”

Koyo is gazing out the window, so he doesn’t see the mix of pride and pain on Akira’s face.

“Yes. He has.”

“We’d like to play him. We’d like to play the both of you.”

This recent quirk of speech irritates Akira more than is maybe appropriate, but as usual he lets it go unanswered.

“I don’t imagine there’s much time this trip. But I would like that too.”

“Perhaps tonight,” Koyo says. “After the reception.”

Koyo says ‘perhaps’ but Akira knows him well enough to hear the imperative underneath.

“I’ll talk to Shindou. Well, then.”

Akira folds his napkin and slides his chair out, and he’s about to stand when his father’s eyes pin him in place. Suddenly it’s the old Koyo, it’s the sharp and severe and fair and present and serious and calm eyes he has known his whole life.

“I saw the record for your most recent game.”

Akira can’t help but smile at the memory of Ogata’s tense and trembling lip.

“Did you?”

“It was beautifully played.”

Akira stands.

“Thank you, father. I’ll see you this evening.”

When he leaves he intends to go to the room where the games will be held but his feet carry him down to the lobby and out the front door.

He takes a two hour walk around the city, just watches the streets change, runs his hands over goods displayed on long tables and in kiosks, not to buy, simply to touch, to have something to feel. But then he sees a little yellow tiger charm and it makes him think of Shindou so he buys it without haggling and slips it into his pocket.

He comes back when the sun’s just about peaked and the heat is too much to push through, even as pent up and restless as he is. He goes back to his room and flops down on the bed that isn’t his own, a tiny act of rebellion. Or maybe it’s that he pictures Shindou laying there instead, and it calms him to imagine the empty space occupied.

He considers showering again but can’t quite bring himself to do it, so he peels off his damp shirt and drops it on the bed before he picks up a new one.

The ride to the airport is long and it gives him a chance to practice his Mandarin with the old driver. The mental exercise and the old man’s stories have a palliative effect on Akira’s mood and by the time they pull up to arrivals he doesn’t even register the heat or the press of the crowd.

He waits patiently for almost forty five minutes before his awareness is drawn to one of the escalators, and there is Shindou with Waya behind him and Akira breathes a little deeper.

“Touyaaaa,” Shindou says, grabbing him by the shoulders. He’s sweaty and wine-flushed and Akira shoots Waya a look, but Waya is already retreating.

“Touya,” Shindou says. “It’s golden week.”

“So it is,” Akira says, grabbing Shindou’s elbows to steady him. Shindou leans in and they bump foreheads and Akira’s heart beats rabbit fast, and then Shindou’s lips are at his ear.

“Gone. Sai’s gona, Touya. But you’re still here.”

Akira staggers wide-eyed under the weight of Shindou’s unbalanced body and shoves back the desire to ask about Sai, because he feels like he’s closer to the truth than he’s ever been and he can’t let it slip through his fingers again.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Stay around, all right?” Shindou says as he pulls back. There are tears in his eyes. Akira wants to say something but Waya is coming back with bags and it’s not the time or the place, so he takes Shindou by the elbow and guides him back to the car where the driver is waiting.

He waits until Waya passes out in the front to grab Shindou’s hand, and it’s soft and motionless in his own. Akira holds him until the car pulls to a stop in front of the hotel, and even with the long ride it’s too soon. The driver is shaking Waya awake, and he tries to unlace their fingers before anyone sees. It takes two tugs before Shindou lets him go.

He carries Shindou’s bag up to their room and dumps it onto the bed, and Shindou flops down between the bag and Akira’s discarded shirt. Akira is about to reach for the shirt when Shindou takes it and crushes it to his face and breathes deeply in.

“Touya. You smell like church.”

Akira sits on his own bed, speechless and paralyzed. He can’t possibly move—if he did, something big would change between them and he's not sure he’s ready to take the risk just yet. By the time he gets his voice back, Shindou is passed out.

Akira lets out the breath he was holding and gets up to take off Shindou’s shoes. Shindou doesn’t stir, not even when Akira gently lifts him by the back of the neck to slide a pillow underneath his head.

Akira places Shindou’s bright yellow sneakers next to his own shoes in the hall, and for the first time in days he feels deeply, eerily calm.

 

***

III. Akiko

 

Akiko makes a passing offer to introduce her son to the daughter of one of the sponsoring CEOs, a single girl about his age who was just accepted to Waseda for biology. He could maybe take her on a walk and get to know her, after all it’s such a nice night out.

Her once gentle and easy-going son has been blossoming into an acutely assertive, stormy-tempered man, and so he says:

“Mother, I’m afraid that’s never going to happen.”

She looks into his resolute face and the epiphany hits her like an open hand. It takes all her strength to stifle the urge to smooth out the wrinkle of fear at the corners of his eyes. She wants to take his face in her hands and kiss his eyelids and tell him yes yes she loves him and loved him before he ever breathed and will love him forever, no matter what, yes even this, always.

“Ah. I understand.”

She takes his hand and its a small gesture but he must understand it because he squeezes her fingers so tight in his own that it hurts. She takes the pain gladly as a small start on the penance she’ll do for missing this crucial detail about her only son. Willful ignorance, a kind of denial; in any case, it’s over now.

She considers the boy at her son’s side in a brand new light. She doesn’t understand exactly what this boy means to her son, but there’s something about him that inspires her men, and so she can’t help but have a kind of distant love for him. He’s kind and quirky and moody and individualistic and deeply devoted to go and if that doesn’t fit Akira to a T she doesn’t know what does.

He’s been good for her son, has grounded Akira in a way that no one else ever could. And Akira has been pouring himself into this boy for years, dragging him out of relative obscurity till they stood on level ground. Finally, for the first time in his life, her son has an age-appropriate counterpart, a real friend and equal. It’s not at all what she imagined, but she figures it’s got all the right parts, so she decides right then and there that it’s all right with her.

“Why don’t I let you boys enjoy yourselves then, hm?”

She sees the color rise in Shindou’s cheeks and she places her hand on his shoulder, gives him an encouraging squeeze.

What he means to Koyo she hasn’t the faintest, and that fills her with a vague sense of unease. So she searches his face for signs of guile, of something untellable. Their eyes meet for a moment and all she sees is a timid admiration before something grabs his attention away from her.

“Hey, Waya,” he says over her shoulder. It speaks to how unrefined he is, but Akiko realizes she’s grateful for an out, for an excuse to step away and process.

“Mother, these are our colleagues,” her son says.

“I’m Waya.”

“This is Mrs. Touya,” Shindou says in his friendly, casual way. He’s got a lovely smile. Akiko is sure he’d call her mom and not mother like her son does.

“Isumi Shinichiro. It’s truly a pleasure.”

“Indeed,” she says with a bow. “It looks like it’s time to rescue my husband from the bureaucrats. If you’ll excuse me, boys.”

Akiko has to charm her way through the same tired chatter four times over before she finds herself alone with her husband. In an uncharacteristic display of public affection, he takes her hand between his own. He’s always been good at sensing her moods and reacting accordingly. It’s one of the reasons she loves him.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” she says quietly, “that our son and that friend of his are abnormally close?”

Koyo chuckles, a deep low rumbling sound that’s as pleasant as it is rare.

“He’s never borne normal well, has he, my son.”

The way he says it, so full of pride and affection and a growing acknowledgement and a deep, deep respect, it obliterates most of the doubt that remains in Akiko’s mind.

“Thank heavens, no.”

“There’s no stopping him when he wants something. You know that as well as I do.”

She sighs, wiggling her fingers in the comforting press of her husband’s warm hands.

“I just worry. It won’t be easy if he, I mean, if they—”

“He’s a good boy. Let him find his way. He always has.”

They lean a little closer, pressing arm to arm, and she draws on her husband’s strength.

 

***

IV. Isumi

 

Isumi watches Touya Akiko slip through the crowd with an easy grace, and he feels like he understands the Meijin’s son just a little bit better than he did before.

“Well, that’s it for me. I’m gonna go get my head right and go to bed,” Waya says.

The four of them nod their goodbyes.

Isumi watches Waya leave and wonders if he shouldn’t have followed. Sometmes being alone with Touya and Shindou is vaguely unsettling. He likes them both, he really does. But he can’t shake the feeling that he’s missing something, like he’s not privy to whatever it is that flows between them off the board.

“He’ll do fine against Jeong,” Touya says, and Isumi thinks it’s probably the first nice thing Touya ever said about Waya.

“Yeah, Waya’s killing it lately,” Shindou says.

“I hope so. I want to play him in the semi-finals,” Isumi says.

“I suspect you will,” Touya says. “If he keeps his head and you play the way you did in that last game with Ochi.”

Isumi is touched that Touya took the time to review his oteai match, busy as he is. He supposes this is as close to a vote of confidence as he’ll get from someone like Touya, and he takes it as one.

Touya turns toward Shindou and Isumi notices their suits, matching double breasted jackets in slate grey. Touya’s is tailored close to fit the slope from his broad shoulders to his narrow waist, and slim through his long legs. Shindou’s has a more modern cut, boxy through the legs but stylishly hung off his athletic frame. Touya’s got a light lilac shirt with a mustard yellow tie, and Shindou’s got the inverse, a pale yellow shirt with a warm indigo tie.

It’s a nice reflection of the effect they have on each other—Shindou dressed up, Touya toned down. Balance. Isumi can imagine it, some argument about whose suit is more ridiculous leading to one dragging the other out shopping. It almost makes him wish Waya cared as much about formalwear as he does about go.

“My father wants to play us,” Touya says, and Isumi is a little gobsmacked by the language. “Tonight, after this.”

Apparently Shindou is surprised too because he says “Both of us? At the same time, or like together?”

Touya huffs and it disturbs his bangs.

“Your guess is as good as mine. I can’t even begin to tell what he's thinking these days. What should I tell him?”

“Yes, tell him yes. Man,” Shindou says, and he’s cracking is knuckles and his face is just about split by a ten megawatt grin. “I can’t tell if I’m scared or excited.”

Touya laughs, looking soft and affectionate and Isumi thinks it suits him, it suits those features he got from his lovely mother. But there’s something alien about it at the same time. Isumi isn’t used to Touya’s softness or affection, though he knows there are people who are. People on the periphery of go, the reporters and the organizers and the students and the fans all see that gentle and mild Touya, the one that’s kind and patient and well spoken. But by now Isumi has been cut down enough by the real Touya, the one with a lion’s eyes, that it’s hard for him to reconcile the two.

“I’ll go tell him then.”

Isumi watches Touya leave, and then it’s just him and Shindou in a corner of the ballroom. For a few precious minutes, the only sounds they hear are strains of indistinct Mandarin threading through the low volume jazz.

“We go up in the third round,” Shindou finally says. “I can’t wait. I saw your Kisei match with Ashiwara. Hoooooo boy.”

Isumi laughs. Shindou has a way of making you feel good.

“I’m excited too. The next few days are gonna be great. Challenging, but good.”

Shindou hums in agreement and they lapse into a comfortable silence. Shindou’s working his lower lip between his teeth like he’s got something on his mind. Isumi shoots him a questioning look, so he leans in conspiratorially and says just about the most outrageous thing Isumi’s heard all night.

“Say, Isumi. How do you know, like,” he pauses, opens and closes his hand as he looks for the words, “for sure, if you like someone? More than a friend.”

Isumi stares open-mouthed at Shindou, but Shindou is just kicking at the carpet with one of his dress shoes, looking straight ahead. He won’t meet Isumi’s eyes, so Isumi looks out in the direction of Shindou’s stare and he can trace a rough line between them and Touya on the other side of the room.

“Are you asking me how you know when you’re in love?”

Shindou squints and frowns a little and drops his gaze.

“Yeah.”

Isumi puts his hands in his pockets, because he feels helpless with them hanging at his sides.

“I honestly don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever been in love before.”

Shindou nods and purses his lips and resumes kicking at the carpet again.

“Though, I guess,” Isumi says, looking at him sideways. “If you have to ask, you probably already know.”

“Hmmm,” Shindou says, smiling a little. “Maybe you’re right.”

Touya is walking back and Isumi excuses himself to go get some water and Shindou asks him for a beer and a whiskey neat. Isumi raises his eyebrows but he figures between playing the Meijin and being maybe in love Shindou needs the courage. So he orders a double whiskey and two beers. He won’t let Shindou drink alone.

When Isumi comes back balancing the drinks in his hand Touya is speaking low in Shindou’s ear, and Isumi catches the last bit of it.

“…at midnight, in the board room. He got a key from the coordinator.”

Shindou whistles and takes one of the beers from between Isumi’s hands.

“That late, huh. Thanks Isumi!”

“He doesn’t want to be disturbed by any media or other players. Thank you so much,” Touya says as he takes the whiskey, ignoring Isumi’s puzzled expression—how Shindou knew that Touya even wanted a drink, let alone what, Isumi can’t fathom. He shoves down the insane notion that the two have some sort of weird rivalry-fueled psychic link.

“So you’re going to do it tonight? When will you sleep?” he says.

They answer at the same time, but Isumi parses out the jumble as ‘sleep is for babies’ and ‘when I’m dead’ respectively.

“Well good luck. Promise you’ll share the record.”

“Maybe,” Shindou says. “If you can find me some ramen in Taiwan.”

Isumi raises his beer.

“Fair enough. To the games we play.”

They touch glasses and drink.

 

***

V. Hikaru

 

Hikaru wakes up when the sun is going down. He realizes with a jolt of shame that he drooled on Touya’s shirt.

He hears the shower and Touya must be in there and the thought makes him itchy so he presses the shirt to his face and inhales again. Then he folds it and drops it on Touya’s bed.

He sees his shoes in the hall and his suit hanging next to Touya’s in the open closet and that itch is back, a kind of vague discomfort that would flood him with the ecstasy of relief if he could only put his finger to it.

He remembers holding hands in the car and his face and his ears get hot so he takes his socks and shirt off and starts digging in his bag for his toiletries. He prays Touya isn’t too long in the shower, because he’s still post-nap hard and the hand holding thing isn’t helping any. It’s already been a long few days, and he only just got here.

Four days in a hotel room together. They’ve done it before. But it’s the end of golden week and tomorrow is the 5th and Hikaru can’t hide all that much from Touya anymore, nothing gets by him. They know each other’s tells.

Maybe this is the year he slips. Maybe this is the year all the unsaid things come tumbling out of him. They have a kind of dance, an silent and elaborate agreement, the terms of which shift in subtle ways month by month with the exception of two unchanging tenets: two consistently unspeakable things, two pillars that uphold their friendship.

One of the consistently unspeakable things has to do with what flows between them, though it seems pretty obvious to Hikaru that it’s all but on the table. He would only have to say it out loud to make it real.

The other unspeakable thing has to do with Sai. Five years later and it still stings. There’s something so unfinished about Sai’s time in his life, and it makes Hikaru feel like he failed. He’s got no grave to visit, and sometimes it feels like he is the grave himself, a part of him growinghard and lonely and covered increasingly with weeds.

Hikaru takes the fan out of the case in his bag and opens it, holds it up in front of his face. He spaces out for a little thinking of the fall of impossibly long hair over embroidered brocade. When he finally snaps the fan shut, Touya is standing in front of him with a towel around his waist, drops of water running down his naked chest.

They stare at each other for several painfully tense moments. Suddenly the room around him disappears and he’s plunged into the wild darkness of a remote forest, and they’re two bucks at the mouth of spring sizing each other up. Breaking the stillness means he’ll have to charge, and he’s never known Touya to back down from anything, not once.

Hikaru swallows, forcing himself not to look Touya up and down. Touya on the other hand seems to have no problem keeping his eyes on Hikaru’s face. That focus, that intensity, it drives him crazy in a rainbow of different ways. He clenches his fists, tries to bite down the surge of emotions that are telling him to do something. He takes a shaky breath and opens his mouth to speak.

“Before you say anything,” Touya says, “I want you to be absolutely sure.”

His voice is firm in challenge but cracked at the end with a tremor of fearful defensiveness.

Hikaru closes his eyes. He grips the fan and takes a long, deep breath.

“I’m gonna go shower now.”

Water drips down Touya’s stomach and pools in his navel before disappearing into the towel, and Hikaru’s eyes follow it the whole way down.

“There’s some soap and shampoo in there already. Use them if you like.”

Hikaru turns the water on very hot and lets it beat over his shoulders until some of the tension starts to melt away. He thinks about touching himself but his hands are shaking and his brain is fogged with grief so he washes and conditions his hair instead. It smells like Touya—temple incense and sandalwood and lightly floral. By the time Hikaru gets out of the shower, Touya is gone.

He makes his way down to the reception hall and finds his name tag with its table number and whoever organized this event is a genius, or else they’re way less subtle than he thinks, because he’s seated next to Touya.

They share a look when he sits down but then the unspokenness descends and forges a truce between them and before long they’re back to comfortably bickering and trading bits of food.

Kurata is there too and he keeps Hikaru laughing with commentary on the opening speeches and gossip and the way he harangues the waiters for more of this and that. Hikaru thought he’d have no appetite and maybe it’s part sitting next to Kurata, who’s eating enough for two, but he’s ravenous. By the end of the meal he feels great, he feels himself again.

The post-banquet social niceties start to feel like a receiving line, people coming by their table to say hello to Touya Akira and even a few who come for Hikaru, and they’re shaking lots of hands and bowing and catching up with everyone. In the heat of a Taiwanese spring it feels like Obon, and that puts Hikaru in a mood again.

Touya notices, like he notices everything, so he tugs on Hikaru’s sleeve and flicks his eyes toward two women in matching white dresses.

“That’s the Tsai twins,” he says. “Wei-ting is on record in an interview saying that she lost to you in the Nokia youth invitational because your, and I quote, ‘adorable manner’ distracted her.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Hikaru says. “She lost because she played like garbage.”

“I agree,” Touya says, amused.

“Girls!” he says, throwing his hands in the air. “They never make sense. Especially young ones. What are they like sixteen?”

But the girls must have noticed them looking, because suddenly they’re walking over.

Touya steps up and speaks for the both of them because even though he spends half his time on the international circuit, Hikaru still hasn’t learned much in the way of foreign languages.

He doesn’t mind though. He likes it when Touya talks for them. Touya could charm the spots off the leopard if he wanted to, and there’s something about the Chinese language that brings all sorts of pleasing sounds out of his throat.

“Tell her I’ll play her with a paper bag on my head and still win,” Hikaru says.

Wei-ting, or maybe Pei-shan, he still can’t tell the difference between them off the board, smiles coyly at him.

“I speak little Japanese,” she says. “We want you play less clothes, not more.”

The second sister says something to Touya that makes him laugh.

“They’re proposing a little tournament in their room, Shindou. Just the four of us.”

“Touya can’t play, he’s busy tonight,” Hikaru says to the sister who speaks Japanese. “And also every other night. Sorry.”

The girls shoot rapid phrases back and forth and Touya answers something curt in reply, and the girls are giggling and walking off.

“What did they say?”

“They said tell your boyfriend to calm down and that they’ll see us in the finals.”

“Yeah they will. And I’ll win again,” Hikaru says, crossing his arms.

Touya looks at him, and Hikaru expects him to be mad, almost wants him to challenge the boyfriend part, but something unreadable comes across his face and he says nothing at all.

Touya’s mom comes by and Hikaru grits his teeth through her attempts to match Touya up with some probably super boring rich girl. It reminds him of the way his own mom always asks about Akari with that note of hope in her voice.

He thinks he’s got a better idea about what Touya would like, but he’s not going to say anything about it. Then, like an answered prayer, Touya says it for him.

“Mother, I’m afraid that’s never going to happen.”

Touya can be such a bitch, and Hikaru has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from grinning. But then he looks up at Akiko’s face and the five emotions that pass there in rapid succession give him pause. She’s got Touya’s face, has the same high cheekbones and expressive lips and eyes and maybe its because he has so much practice with Touya but he finds her easy to read. He’s got tremendous sympathy for her in that moment, because it honestly looks like she didn’t really know until now.

She says she understands, and Hikaru is afraid of just how much she understands because then she turns to him and puts her slim, pretty hand on his shoulder. There’s a warmth and a welcome there and when he imagines that same acceptance on his own mother’s face and it gives him relief in a place he didn’t know he needed.

He’s starting to feel awkward under the weight of not one but two Touyas’ focus when Waya, bless his sense of timing, appears out of nowhere with Isumi close behind. Hikaru has a little laugh to himself about how flustered Waya gets around Touya’s mom. It’s enough to chase her away, which is probably for the best.

“Well that’s it for me. I’m gonna go get my head right and go to bed.”

Waya leaves and the three of them stand there and make small talk, but Hikaru’s heart isn’t in it. He’s remembering a set of large, pale hands. It’s shocking to think about, but he never once saw Sai hold a stone. Never once did he hear the sharp rap of clamshell on kaya set down by those hands. No, it was all his own clumsy hands, a shadow of the real thing. He wishes that Sai could see him now. He takes stock of his own strength and knows it still falls short, will probably fall short forever, and he’s kind of glad of that. Still, he wishes he could feel the incisiveness, the infinite depth of those moves. He wishes he could shout into that void again and see what echoes back.

“My father wants to play us,” Touya says, and Hikaru shivers, because it’s very clearly the next best thing. If he ever beat Touya Meijin, he’d be that much closer to Sai. Of course he accepts, they’re both a long way off yet but this is an important metric, one he’ll hold for comparison a long long time.

He watches Touya walk off and he marvels at the miracle that is Touya’s presence in his life. He wouldn’t have understood Sai without Touya, and he wouldn’t understand Touya without Sai. They’re two interlocking pieces in the machine that derailed his pedestrian life and set him onto something magical, something that made him come alive. He’s got a lifetime of work ahead of him, but Hikaru feels a part of something real and very special, and for that, no matter what, he’ll carry Sai and Touya side by side in his heart forever.

“Say, Isumi. How do you know, like for sure, if you like someone? More than a friend.”

There’s a pause that makes Hikaru reflect on how impossible it is to take words back once you’ve said them out loud.

“Are you asking me how you know when you’re in love?”

And as soon as Isumi says it, it hits him. Of course he’s in love. That’s what this is, and now that he’s got a word for it, everything surrounding it slides neatly into place.

He feels high, like he’s floating and can see the whole room, can see all the options laid out before him. It’s all so simple and clear and he suddenly has zero doubt about what to do. Isumi gets them some drinks and Touya comes back and they talk for a while, and Hikaru is flowing through it, like he isn’t really living, but piloting himself through the moments between his great epiphany and the moment Isumi leaves them alone together.

“Touya. Take a walk with me.”

Touya smiles a little and quietly complies. It’s funny, how easy-going he can be. He’s way less picky than Hikaru about lots of things, like food and leisure activities and even music. He’s never a follower, but he seems to have an easier time submitting and going with the flow. Maybe it’s because of that unshakable strength inside that he doesn’t mind so much bending to the whims of others.

Touya exercises his control only when it matters to him, and then with a ruthless unyielding, and this is a game in which Hikaru may never pass him.

They find a quiet corner of the courtyard behind the pool, and it’s empty at this hour of night. They sit on a bench shaded by the far-reaching centerpiece of the wide square space, a towering white magnolia tree.

“Shindou,” Touya says.

Hikaru sits maybe a little too close and their legs are almost touching. He lays the hand nearest Touya palm-up on his thigh and takes a deep breath.

“Touya. I’m absolutely sure.”

Hikaru stares down at his expectantly open palm until Touya fills it with his own.

It all unfolds seamlessly from there: he looks up, their eyes meet, their fingers lace together, and Touya leans in and kisses him. They taste like alcohol and the scent from the magnolia blooms is thick in the warm, humid air and they’re pushing off one another's jackets and his hands are at Touya’s neck, tugging loose the tie. Touya’s tongue is dipping past his lips and they both turn, knees knocking, until they’re half leaning off the bench, pushing up toward each other so they can get closer, closer.

And then Touya pulls back gasping and his hand is in Hikaru’s hair, just this side of painful. He says ‘not here’ and Hikaru shoots up and drags Touya by the wrist back inside and into the elevator. He’s not sure if anyone saw them like that with their hair messed and their ties half off but he doesn’t really care anymore.

He keeps hold of Touya’s wrist in the elevator and it makes him think of that time Touya dragged him onto the subway when they were just kids. They’re still kids, even though Hikaru’s staring down twenty and just had his first kiss. He feels a deep, ancient power surge through him, and he knows they won’t stay kids for very much longer.

They stumble into the room, kicking off their shoes before the door is even closed. Touya throws his jacket on the ground, which is how Hikaru knows he’s in a bad way, because he would never do that under normal circumstances. They lose their socks and their ties and Touya gets his belt half way off and Hikaru is fumbling with his own when Touya pushes him up against the wall. Touya’s got both of Hikaru’s wrists pinned up by his ears and he’s grinding up against him and they moan into each other's mouths and it’s so hot that Hikaru feels himself rushing almost over the edge. But then Touya staggers back, sits down on the edge of Hikaru’s bed and Hikaru can see him reigning himself in, can see that honed control surge up from a deep place.

“Take your shirt off,” Touya says.

Hikaru works the buttons of his dress shirt open and shrugs one shoulder out, then the other. He lets the shirt fall to the floor behind him, and he waits.

It’s slower now, Touya’s pacing them, and piece by piece they shed their clothes and crawl onto the bed. They collapse on their sides, facing in toward each other.

They touch gently, tentatively, working from clasped fingers up the arms to cup each other's faces, trading deep, slow kisses all the while. Touya hooks his leg around Hikaru’s and it pulls them closer, and Hikaru flinches when they meet in the middle, heat and hardness and the dewy press of Touya’s cock against his stomach. But Touya grabs him around the waist and presses them closer, and Hikaru moans into the kiss, and that’s when the control breaks.

Touya rolls them and Hikaru is under him, pinned again. Hikaru bucks his hips and Touya’s eyes roll back, and that’s about the nicest thing Hikaru’s ever seen. Touya leans in to kiss him and it’s a battle this time, there’s a brutality there that’s got Hikaru close to the edge again, so he snakes his hand between them and grips them both as best he can. Touya’s bigger than he expected, and he can’t quite get his fingers all the way around both of them, but then Touya’s hand is on the other side and they squeeze, and they’re both so wet that they slide hot and easy into the space between them.

The friction dips back and forth between pleasure and pain but the feeling of Touya’s body pressed against him paints everything in a warm wash of ecstasy. Years and years and how many near-misses, how many dreams and indulgent late night fantasies, and he’s thought about it a million times but nothing came remotely close to the truth.

Touya’s nipping at his ear and sucking on the space below, behind his jaw and Hikaru is shaking, trembling under every touch. His free hand slips into Touya’s hair and he closes his fist and pulls, and Touya growls into his ear. Hikaru tugs a little harder and the low growl turns into a moan. He can hear Touya coming undone above him and it sends sends him over too, it’s too much and he’s coming hard over Touya’s twitching fingers. He feels them spilling hot on his stomach but all he sees is white fog and points of light, until Touya’s flushed cheeks and glassy eyes and parted lips fade back into view, framed by the dark fall of his hair.

Hikaru reaches up and slips his fingers through that silky hair, and he can feel his cheeks burn from how wide he’s smiling.

“I think I love you,” Hikaru says.

Touya’s eyes go very soft. He casts them down, dark lashes kissing flushed cheeks, as he says:

“I think I’ve loved you for a very long time.”

Hikaru tucks the hair behind Touya’s ears and their eyes meet. Touya catches Hikaru’s hand and brings it to his lips and kisses wrist and then palm and then he turns it over and kisses the knuckles. He sighs.

“It’s 11:30. We promised my father a game.”

“Yeah, yes. Ugh. Right. Let’s clean up.”

Hikaru is suddenly shy of his nakedness and very aware of the cooling mess on his stomach. Touya gets up and brings back a towel and they clean themselves up and get dressed.

They sneak out of their room like they just got away with something, closing the door as slowly and quietly as possible. They loop their pinkies together on the elevator ride down to the floor where they’ll face the Meijin. It’s the last trace of giddy satisfaction to fade, giving way to the focused intensity that comes upon them before they play.

The light is on inside the room and they hesitate at the mouth of the darkened hallway that leads there. Finally, Touya steps forward, but Hikaru stays frozen at the threshold.

“Shindou.”

Hikaru stares at his hands, those pale substitutes for the ones he learned from.

“He would have given anything to play your dad again.”

Touya pauses with his hand on the doorknob.

“Who?”

Hikaru answers so quietly that Touya has to convince himself it’s not just a rush of air.

“Sai.”

Touya holds out his hand to Hikaru.

“Hikaru. Come.”

Hikaru takes the offered hand.

“Let’s go.”

 

***

VI. Koyo

 

Koyo leaves Akiko dozing on the bed when he slips out of the room. He’s an hour early, give or take, but it gives them time to begin a game. They haven’t played in days, too occupied with travel, and he’s missed it dearly. Nowadays, Sai is the only one who can really challenge him.

_‘Shall we play hayago?’_

Koyo tucks his hands into the sleeves of his kimono.

“Let’s.”

They enter the board room reserved for game review and Koyo places both goke on his side.

In the quiet and the stillness of the room he can just about make out Sai’s shape. It’s easier at night, when the spirits move freely. Sai takes to pointing with the tip of his maiougi fan and the game quickly develops into a thicket of traps in each of the four corners.

_‘We have an unfair advantage in being able to converse without them hearing.’_

“So we do,” Koyo says, placing stone after stone.

_‘He’s grown so tremendously since last I saw him. They both have.’_

“Mmm, my son owes a lot to your pupil.”

_‘And my Hikaru to your son.’_

Koyo hears a long, melodic sigh.

_‘I wish more than anything that I could speak with him.’_

“In essence, you will. If you’d like to play him alone, just say so. I’ll move the stones for you.”

There’s a momentary pause in the game, but Sai quickly recovers, indicating his next move with a swoop of the fan.

_‘No, I believe we should go ahead as planned.’_

Koyo assesses the board.

“And where did this idea come from? It isn’t like you at all.”

There’s a pleasant ripple of laughter at that.

_‘I beg to differ. I’m a foremost pedagogue, you see.’_

“And you think this is essential to their progress?”

Sai hums, smile half hidden by the fan.

_‘In fact, I think it’s essential to ours.’_

Sai points his next move and Koyo can see more of the wood grain under the lacquer of the fan’s staves. Since they first encountered one another in a dream, Sai has made his presence known through sound more than sight. On a good day Koyo can see foggy impressions, gestures, shapes, but rarely a clear form. But every year for the past five years, on May 5th, Sai appears to him whole. It’s a day Koyo has come to look forward to.

_‘My, my. I fear you have me beat this time.’_

Koyo bows and begins to clear the stones.

“They should be here any minute.”

Sai moves over to Koyo’s side of the board. They wait calmly for the boys to arrive.

_‘I am terribly grateful for your hospitality, you know.’_

Koyo prepares his response, but the door is creaking open. He hears Sai gasp as the boys step in.

“Father.”

Akira’s face is hard as arctic ice and Hikaru’s eyes are dancing with lethal fire.

_‘They’ve come prepared. I can feel their spirit.’_

“Have a seat,” Koyo says.

They sit on the other side of the board.

“Thank you for indulging my unusual request,” Koyo says. “As I said, I would like you to play together. We want to feel the extent of your combined abilities. No time limit, no komi. Confer as much as you need.”

They look at one another and nod.

_‘Well then.’_

The boys take black and Koyo takes white. He waits patiently as they whisper back and forth, foreheads almost touching.

Akira takes a stone and places it on the upper right star point. Sai points to a lower komoku and Koyo nods his agreement. He places the stone.

To Koyo’s surprise, the boys alternate placing the stones. The opening unfolds rapidly, and they play aggressive but clear-headed hands. He expected them to squabble more, but they’re lock-step, seeming to need only the barest discussion to come to a consensus about how to respond.

Sai and Koyo fall as easily into sync. This is an old routine for them by now, and Sai only occasionally has to explain his reasoning when he wants to move somewhere Koyo doesn’t. They take their time, give full consideration to each move. The boys are pressing them, forcing them to play at their highest.

The change comes over gradually. The boys were serious to start, but now they’re rattled, they’re beginning to channel the ferocity of the cornered animal. Hikaru is baring his teeth, hands tight around the fan, and his hair sticks to the damp skin of his forehead. Akira’s jaw works as he thinks, teeth grinding in a focus-pinched fury. Koyo can see the muscles twist behind the screen of his hair. It’s an old tell, a sign of the utmost struggle, one Koyo hasn’t seen since Akira was about ten years old.

They relax only when they’re conferring. They sit so close that their legs touch, and they whisper directly into one another's ears, cheeks flush. There are occasional hand gestures, or what looks like one tracing out a series of moves on the other one’s thigh. Koyo notes their casual intimacy, the ease of the shared space, and he spares a glance at Sai. Sai is smiling, touching his fan to his lips.

 _‘We are witness to a birth tonight,’_ he says.

‘A coming of age,’ Koyo thinks.

Koyo puts in his mind’s eye an Utagawa print of the kohaku koi ascending toward the dragon gate, and it draws an amused chuckle from Sai. He looks down at the board, no longer a dance but a blood-drenched battlefield, and then Sai recalls for them a favorite print of Kintaro battling the carp.

‘ _They make one feel young again, don’t they?’_

As the game develops, the boys begin to share awed looks. Akira whispers something to Hikaru that makes him nod gravely, looking shaken to the core. At one point, he sits back, eyes sliding closed, and Koyo can see the glint of a tear at the corners.

Hikaru looks up at Koyo with a mix of anger and deep hurt, and Koyo can feel the pressure he’s exerting.

But it’s too late: the game has turned. The river of blood drawn by the battles on the outside has met the deep pull of the sea, giving way to an aerial dance, the courting of eagles or of cranes. It’s a battle royale, two feinting hawks with talons twined, diving headfirst toward the ground.

Koyo plays their stone, the stone that pulls their territory up and out of the dive toward salvation, and from that save all the other battles draw life.

The boys sit back. Akira lets out a shaky breath, shoulders trembling. It’s over for them, a defeat so elegant and so complete that they can’t seem to speak, as though to voice their resignation would be vulgar, and it would.

Koyo can see the goosebumps rise on Hikaru’s arms.

“I…Touya-sensei, you…for how long?”

“It’s all right,” Koyo says. “I suspect as long as you would imagine.”

Akira places his hand on Hikaru’s thigh, eyes trained on Koyo.

“This isn’t, I…is this really happening?” Hikaru says, eyes darting from Akira to the space above Koyo’s shoulder.

“Akira, is this happening, can you see?”

A tear spills down his cheek and his lip is trembling, and as he looks back up at a space on the wall more tears begin to flow.

“What’s gotten into—” Akira says, following Hikaru’s line of sight.

He sees a translucent bolt of fabric dance in the light, like an invisible hand is gently shaking a ream of gauze. The shape takes form, a great sloping pyramid of lacquered and layered silk. There is a face framed in long dark hair, and the face is lifted to the ceiling as though in prayer. Akira is taken by the beauty of that face and of the shapely hands that cradle a dancer’s fan against the cheek. Suddenly what stands before him is a man in tenth century robes, solid and clear, and his presence is palpable, it fills the room and presses up against Akira’s skin. It’s a pressure unlike anything he’s ever felt before, and it humbles him.

“Hikaru. You can see me. Can you hear my voice?”

Akira hears the voice, and it’s lovely and warm and edged with familiarity and dripping with hope, with deep sentiment. He feels more inadequate in that moment than he ever has before. The feeling gives way in stages to a slack-jawed, childlike awe. This is the man with the beautiful go—a beautiful man, the one who raised Hikaru up to meet him. The gratitude that fills him obliterates the clinging sense of inferiority, and he spills a few tears of his own.

“Sai…”

Hikaru stands, reaches his hands out like a child. He’s shaking all over and his breath starts to catch on the sobs he’s swallowing down.

“How? You’re here, how. I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I didn’t believe you, I—”

Sai reaches out toward Hikaru, and their fingers touch. His fingers pass through Hikaru’s, insubstantial, and Akira gasps.

“Hikaru. It’s okay. Shh, it’s okay now. It was meant to be this way.”

Sai’s hand ghosts over Hikaru’s hair, the gesture of smoothing.

“Thank you. All of you. You have given me rest.”

He bows deeply to Koyo, then to Akira.

“Hikaru,” he says, and it rips a vicious sob from Hikaru’s throat.

A light fills the room as they embrace. Hikaru sobs openly into the solidifying folds of Sai’s kariginu, and his fingers tangle into the long black hair that falls down Sai’s back. Sai cradles Hikaru’s head and rubs soothing circles on his back. As Hikaru’s sob’s die down, Sai’s own tears trickle down to land in Hikaru’s hair.

“My thousand year quest is complete, Hikaru.”

They part with some difficulty, and a few strands of Sai’s hair slip free of the ribbon, caught around Hikaru’s fingers.

“Good bye.”

The light surrounds him, and there’s a brightening and the sound of wind through leaves, and the faint scent of wisteria blossoms, and then Sai is gone.

 

***

VII. Postscript

 

“Touya Meijin, over here. Yes, next to the Oza. Okay, everybody, please bear with us, this is a big day, we really want to get a lot of pictures.”

Kosemura chases the photographers into position, then stands back, hands on his hips.

“Wonderful, yes, get a lot of shots, don’t be shy.”

Akira tucks his chin, relaxes his lips. He stands just a little wider than he normally would, rolls his shoulders back, making sure not to upset his collar. He’s used to being photographed, formal kimono or not.

“Touya Meijin. I’m gonna call you that from now on,” Hikaru says out of the corner of his mouth.

“I didn’t once call you Meijin unless I absolutely had to, so you’d better not.”

“Or else what?” Hikaru says, voice husky.

“Will you focus? The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can go home.”

“Trust me, I am very focused on getting us home.”

The photographers ask them to angle their bodies in, and he makes the appropriate adjustments. At this angle, their inside arms are hidden in the folds of Akira’s kimono.

Hikaru slips his hand into Akira’s.

“Great! Now face front, please” Kosemura calls.

They turn, but Hikaru grips him tight, and they lose the discretion of the hang of Akira’s sleeves.

There’s a flurry of shutter clicks, and Akira doesn’t pull away. With Kosemura’s jaw hanging open, there’s no one to direct them, so they stay that way, smiling, holding hands, the two most decorated players in the country.

“It was a pleasure to lose to you like that. I mean, it was a perfect game,” Hikaru says. Akira squeezes his hand.

“Your dad would have been so proud. I wish he could see this.”

Akira lifts his face a little higher, takes a generous breath of fresh air. He looks up at the clear blue sky and he thinks,

‘ _Can you see us?_

_Can you hear our voice?’_

**Author's Note:**

> I so love this fandom and these characters. 
> 
> I only sort of watched the anime, most  
> of my info and characterization comes from the manga (hence why Touya’s so sassy). There’s a panel in the last volume where Koyo says “Ok, Sai, say what you have to say,” and in my head it means Sai left Hikaru to go with Koyo so he could find the hand of god. And that’s why I wrote this! 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading, I really hope it brings you as much joy as it brought me to write it!


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